We Thought We'd Have This Figured Out By Now
by KyraAnnCoombes
Summary: Ginny just split with Harry, and her life is suddenly looking a lot less on track. How is she supposed to decide who she is, if she's spent most of her life wrapped up in someone else's? The struggle to get a job and apartment, live her own life, and hide from her mum's attempts to get her and Harry back together is made a bit more exciting with the addition of a new old friend.
1. Beginnings

She couldn't believe it was all over.

So many years-practically her whole _life–_had been defined by her loving Harry, and it had all crumbled beneath her over the course of a bloody morning. In retrospect, it had probably been stupid to base so much of her identity on a boy, but what could she do? It wasn't as if she could pay her five year-old self a visit and beg her not to fall in love with the boy in the Daily Prophet article that her father gave her to practice her reading.

It'd all been downhill from there, really. She remembered nearly passing out when her stupidest brother came home and told her that he was best friends with _the _Harry Potter, like it wasn't even a big deal. Or when she had gone to school herself, a perpetually blushing bundle of silent, awkward nerves, and he'd saved her life. It was nothing, really!

Ginny gagged audibly. She was 21, not 11 anymore, and the less she thought about him, the better. Sliding her broom into the green suede purse on the bed courtesy of one of the charms Hermione had taught her, she thought of where she could go.

Moving back into the Burrow wasn't her _first _choice, obviously. Her mother was likely to coddle her, and probably would orchestrate as many events and dinners as possible to try and push her and Harry back together. _Not bloody likely, _she scoffed, throwing her clothes and books haphazardly into the bag. Ron and Hermione's place would be even worse.

She could always take out a room at the Leaky for a few weeks until she found her own place...but that required money, and for now her accounts were still tied up with Harry's. She ticked down the list of brothers: Bill and Fleur lived in France, Charlie and his boyfriend in Romania, Percy was a bloody ambassador's secretary in Japan, George and Luna were on a three month safari... Out of nowhere, she was hit with a sudden rush of loneliness. All of her friends were her friends through Harry, including half of her brothers. More than anything, she wished Tonks was there. Ginny had lived almost 15 years without any female role model but her mother, but that had changed as soon as she met Tonks. Though she was awkward and clumsy, she still managed to be everything Ginny wanted to be when she grew up. Tonks would definitely let her stay, as long as she helped watch little Teddy...Tears pricked at her eyes. _Thinking like that won't help you, either._

She finished packing and starting destroying. It was a cold, hard _Reducto! _for the picture on the nightstand, a Stinging Hex into his chest of drawers, a Cascading Jinx to the bookshelf, a bold _Defodio! _to the bedspread, a Locking Spell to the shower door (after she turned the water on, of course) and too many more to count.

Finally, she laid a nasty tripping jinx in the doorway before slamming the door shut. A Permanent Sticking Charm of her engagement ring to th–_his _bedroom door and a Bat Bogey Hex in every room later, she was out of Number 12, Grimmauld Place for what she hoped was the last time.

Her stop into her old room at the Burrow was long enough to unpack her necessities and not much else. As soon as she dug her broom out from the bottom of the suede bag, Ginny ran down the stairs like a little girl and burst out of the house and into the garden. There was still a mostly-inflated Quaffle in the shed by the grace of some god, and she punted it as high into the air as she could manage before hopping onto the broom and…and nothing. She jerked forward sharply to urge the broom on and succeeded only in falling onto her face and staining her knees with dirt.

"Shit!" she groaned, immediately regretting packing her broom before all of her heavy things. Her shoddy charm and impractical packing combined had done something terrible to Fred's old Firebolt.

Ginny took a deep breath and tied back her long, red hair. It was as good a time as any for a trip to Diagon Alley—she needed to work out her finances, and looking for a job wouldn't be a bad idea either. Broom in hand, she Summoned her purse through the open window of the house and Disapparated.

Diagon Alley was as noisy and crowded as ever. Ginny was dimly aware that it may have been about the time when young witches and wizards got their Hogwarts letters for the new school year, judging by the relative size and age of the crowd, which meant that everything would be beyond busy, but also meant that she'd narrowly avoided having to buy Harry a birthday present.

The queue in Gringotts was nearly out the door, so she decided to wait on procuring current funds and work on securing future ones via a new job. Florian Fortescue was glad to see her, but he'd just hired on his niece. The old witch who ran the apothecary found her knowledge of potion ingredients to be less than satisfactory. Flourish & Blotts had just let a lad go because they were switching to an automatic system, and she had started sneezing uncontrollably when she walked into the Magical Menagerie, so that was out, too. Quality Quidditch supplies was _never _hiring, and it was always from a pool of retired professionals when they did. Now Ginny _really _regretted not taking the Seeker position with Appleby when they'd offered the past spring—her pride had been too strong, and she really had wanted to play Chaser—it made her want to slam her head against the lopsided brick walls.

She kept walking, half-trying to run away from her thoughts, and before long she realized that she'd gone all the way into the empty streets that used to make up Knocturn Alley. The Aurors had totally gutted it after the war, and there were only a handful of stores left. The abandoned streets were exactly what she needed, though. Ginny leaned against the grubby brick, the hot tears she'd been holding back since breakfast falling undeterred from her sad eyes.

The steak and kidney pie wasn't her mother's, but it was filling and cheap, and the goblins at Gringotts hadn't been of much help with her financial situation. A few Sickles and a Knut clinked together as she set them on the polished table and set off to get her broom fixed. She had some options: The Firebolt had come from Broomstix originally, but the warranty was out by now, and they'd be pricier. One couldn't argue with the, well, _quality _of Quality Quidditch Supplies, but the secondhand broom store would be cheapest. Quality Quidditch made the most sense, she decided, so she dug around her bag for the damaged broom and strode confidently into the shop, hoping a flourish of her red hair and a batting of the lashes around her deep brown eyes could wheedle down the price of what would surely be an expensive fix.

Predictably, the store was full of school-aged children, all too broom-crazed to take much notice of her. The tiniest drooled over brooms they couldn't take to school, while the older ones argued over teams and statistics and equipment. Ginny actually laughed out loud when an older boy in a Ravenclaw sweater checked her out, and she made her way to the back of the store. The service desk was a surprising island of peace in the tumultuously busy store, run by a familiar face.

"Miss Weasley! What can I do for y'today?"

"Oliver Wood," she smiled at him, "It's been a while, hasn't it?" He'd been too old for them to be properly acquainted in school, but he was friendly with her older brothers. "What's a professional athlete like you doing mending brooms?"

Oliver held up his left wrist, wrapped in some sort of a splint. "Last in the line of many, I fear. I'm done for good this time. What about you? I heard you were a sight to behold in the air!" he asked, running his injured hand through his sandy hair. Ginny barely noticed his eyes flicking over her.

Ginny sighed. "I waited too long for the right offer, and then stopped getting them at all. You know how it happens."

He nodded in understanding. "You having a broom issue, then?"

The Firebolt was tossed onto the table in response. "I don't even know, what happened, really! Well…Okay, I do know. I…I was leaving H–someplace in a hurry, and it got jammed into a bag with a ton of books and other stuff, and it just…stopped working?" she finished uncertainly. "The bloody warranty _just _ran out, too, and I'm a bit strapped for Galleons at the mo'…"

He eyed her curiously. "Well, it sounds like you're leaving a lot out, but I'll probably be able to figure it out. Did you use any spells on whatever it was packed in?"

She bit her lip, averting her eyes. "A less-than-perfect Undetectable Extension Charm, plus two Apparitions."

Oliver nodded slowly, scratching a long brown quill against a notepad. "How's Harry, by the way?" he questioned casually, looking up from his notes. "I haven't talked to him in ages, I heard you lot were engaged?"

She winced at the mention of Harry, and Oliver definitely noticed._ I guess I've got to start telling people eventually, _she told herself before biting the bullet. "You'd have to ask him yourself, actually. We broke up just this morning," she announced, as aloofly as she could manage.

"I'm sorry," he said, simply and honestly. "That explains a lot, then." He was sort of staring, as though he didn't know what to say.

"No, I'm sorry I'm springing personal stuff on you," she dismissed, smiling bravely. "How much d'you think this'll run me, though? Like I said, sort of strapped…"

The hand in the splint scratched the back of his almost-sunburnt neck. "I dunno, I'd have to take a look. I'm actually about to clock out for the morning, so…" he hesitated, then added quickly, "I mean, you're an old friend, and you're in a spot of trouble. I can probably fix it with what I have at home... I could even teach you, if you'd like," he offered with a shrug, crumpling the service order parchment he'd been scrawling on a moment before.

Ginny knew that she wasn't quite an 'old friend,' and she was a smart enough witch to put his offer and the subtle glances he was giving her together. But he was extremely attractive, and she was also a grown woman who could do as she bloody well pleased.

"That sounds great, actually. Owl me when you're free," she answered enthusiastically, taking her broom from the table.

"Brilliant! Where are you living these days?"

She cringed. "Back home at the Burrow, for the time being."

A sympathetic wince was his response. "I'll definitely owl you, though. It was nice seeing you, Ginny."

"For sure! Thanks, Oliver," she grinned and left the store. As she Disapparated, she wondered if what she'd thought this morning was a terrible end could actually be a new beginning.


	2. Restless

**A/N: **_I couldn't figure how to make this into its own chapter that matched the length of the others, so I'm posting this one and the next today so nobody feels shorted. Please read/review!_

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Ginny tied her hair into a ponytail, secured it, looked in the mirror...and pulled it out and tried again. That didn't work either, so she settled for a loose French braid and a beaded headband Luna had made her. She walked away from the mirror before she could change her mind again.

She felt pretty stupid, freaking out. 21 years old, and acting like this! It made her want to scream. The situation was beyond ridiculous: she still hadn't found a job, and was still at home, but Oliver had finally owled her about her broom. _He's just coming to show me how to fix it, _she told herself, _it's not a date or anything. _But still, since things had blown up with Harry her life had been seriously lacking in male interaction, platonic or otherwise. It was even true for her brothers: Ron was convinced that whatever had gone wrong with her and Harry was predominantly _her _fault, and all of Hermione's forced civility couldn't atone for how unfair and hurtful that was. The rest of her brothers were away or living their own lives, and though Neville had sent an owl or two to ask her if she was alright, he'd never much been one for conversation. So she was reduced to the company of her aging parents, and while knitting by the radio with her mum and tinkering with a toaster with her father passed the time, it wasn't exactly thrilling.

_This is going to be so awkward. _Her mother _insisted_ on making dinner, and she was probably going to push an inhuman amount of food on Oliver. All Ginny wanted to do was head straight for her father's (thankfully heavily tidied) shed and figure out what was going on with her broom, not embark on a half-baked five course double date with her parents and a bloke she barely knew outside of her brother's school stories!

For the thirtieth time that afternoon, she buried her head in her pillows and groaned. Her room was unchanged from when she'd last inhabited it around the time of Bill and Fleur's wedding: the Weird Sisters and Gwenog Jones still hung from the small walls, though the desk had fewer Herbology and Charms notes than it had then. Ginny rolled over, suddenly ridiculously self-conscious about her bed. The lavender and dark purple probably looked _awful _with her hair–

"What am I _thinking?" _she said out loud, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. She'd never been this awkward about guys–too popular for her own good in her school days, her brothers had said–but she'd also just come out a nearly seven year-long relationship with the only person she'd ever actually loved. Surely some growing pains were to be expected?

Still nervous, she left her room and slipped down the flight of stairs separating her from the living room. A tendril of hair had snuck out from her braid somewhere over the course of her agitation, and it took much more concentration than it should have to resist the temptation to run upstairs and fix it. Facing the large bookshelf by the fire, she selected a worn-looking collection of useful household charms and sat on the scratched leather couch. Picking at a loose thread in the gold G emblazoned on the chest of her dark green Weasley sweater while she pretended to read, she silently tried to wish away her pathetic restlessness.


	3. Haze

The words hit her like a pound of bricks.

_Ginny,_

_Please meet me for lunch this afternoon in Diagon Alley. We have some matters to settle. _

_I'll meet you outside Gringotts at 1 pm._

_See you then,_

_Harry_

It was just like him. No "will this work for you?" or "How does this sound?" in sight. What if she had had plans? She hadn't, but that wasn't the point. Harry Bloody Potter was too busy saving the world to care about her nonexistent prior engagements.

Unfortunately, her mother had recognized Harry's new snowy owl and tore open the note, greeting Ginny at breakfast with a knowing and sickly-sweet smile. They'd been broken up for two months, but her mother clearly still hoped the split was reversible. She actually made Ginny change into more "presentable" clothes before she'd let her leave the house!

Thankfully, Molly hadn't gone as far as to instruct her to make amends with Harry, but it was in her warm, brown eyes as she kissed her only daughter's forehead and wished her luck.

By the time Ginny was free of her mother's incessant fussing, she was late to meet with Harry. She was barely out the door when she Disapparated, and she had to fight through the weekday lunch crowds to get to the bank.

Harry was standing by the huge doors, cleaning his glasses on the sleeve of his Ministry robes. "Oh! Erm, hello," he said awkwardly, holding out his hand and pulling it back suddenly.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with?" she suggested, swinging open the large doors and walking in.

Harry's presence made her second trip to Gringotts more fruitful, though many of the goblins gave them long, sideways glances. It was only fair, really: Harry was one of only three humans who'd robbed the bank and lived...Thinking of yet another of Harry's innumerable acts of heroism made her shudder. Once her small independent vault was set up and she withdrew enough money for advanced rent on a new apartment, she tried to say her goodbyes.

"I thought...maybe lunch?" Harry said civilly, looking anywhere but her eyes.

"Thanks, but I'm a bit knackered, and I should get apartment hunting," she said, not leaving it open for discussion. "Thanks for helping me sort out my situation, though." She considered apologizing for the storm of messy and dangerous magic she'd left for him when she moved out, but didn't bother.

"Oh! Sure. It was nothing, really. I guess I'll see you around?" he said awkwardly.

"Sure. Mum'll probably owl you, I think you're pretty much still an honorary Weasley." It was a struggle to hide her grimace, but she managed. "Anyways, apartment hunting. See you."

Harry mumbled a farewell, but she didn't bother offering her own. The only goodbye she had for him was probably still stuck to his bedroom door.

Fish and chips on the Muggle side of London was her low-budget lunch fare today, a welcome respite in a whirlwind of apartment hunting. Wizard lodgings often came with ridiculous markups, a result of their amenities needing to be kept a secret by law. But what many of her school acquaintances had figured out was that it was easier (and much cheaper) to pose as a Muggle uni student and rent a flat that way.

Ginny poked around a few vacant studio apartments, but they were either extremely run-down or in sketchy neighborhoods, so she gave up before dark. Reluctantly, she wandered back to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint or two before completely retreating to the Burrow.

She stared into the foamy head resting on top of her beer, trying not to think of how awkward and depressing her afternoon had been. The overwhelming sensation was one of a deep and heavy fog, like she'd been hungover from the fermented leftovers of her years with Harry. She had all the symptoms, at least: nausea and a raging headache, a foul taste in her mouth, an overwhelming sense of regret. _If I'm going to feel it, I may as well earn it,_ she told herself, raising the cold pilsner to her lips and taking a deep quaff.

"Long week for you as well, I take it?" a voice clipped behind her.

"Mmk!" Ginny squeaked into the liquid, accidentally slopping a bit down her front. "Oliver! Shit, you scared me," she winced, mopping the trail of beer off her chest with the questionably clean napkin in front of her.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, then gestured to the stool next to her. "Mind if I join you? I'll even buy you your next round as an apology."

"Go ahead!" she smiled widely, glad to have such attractive company. "But don't bother, I've got my very own Gringotts account to blow on alcohol as of this afternoon, and I've got a few years of catching up to do, I think."

Oliver hesitated before nodding slowly, in what Ginny assumed was an effort to tread lightly around the topic of her breakup. "I won't try to keep up with you," he said after a time, "I've gotten hammered with far too many Weasleys to try that again any time soon."

"Ha! And I'd heard the Scots could hold their liquor," she teased, draining her second drink and signaling to the barkeep for another. "Just along for the ride, then? Things could get messy," she warned. Ginny had only been truly intoxicated a few times, but it was enough to know she went from very social to very angry as she graduated from tipsy to sloshed, and her currently fragile emotional state could send her into a bout of the horrific drunk weeping that Fleur was prone to.

He absentmindedly chewed his bottom lip, considering his next words. "Count me as…First Mate on your ship, Captain Weasley."

Drily, she responded, "Is the ship called 'Broken Quidditch Dreams?'"

Oliver winced. "I think we'd have to share captaincy on that one, Ginny." It was his turn to take an extremely long drink. "Maybe, 'We Thought We'd Have This Figured Out By Now,' eh? I like that one." He held his glass up in a mock-toast, and she clinked hers against it in agreement.

"What's so un-figured about your life?" she questioned a few minutes later, twisting around on the barstool.

He shrugged. "Dunno, really, and that's the worst part."


	4. Formal

**A/N: **_Enjoy! I like this chapter a lot. Reviews are cool!_

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The boxes were un-Shrunk, the bags from the Muggle furniture store were strewn about close to where they'd eventually be needed, and the unpacking was underway.

Ginny was through with the essentials in her room and finishing her bathroom when the tiny plaster bluebird by the front door gave a whistle. The small ornament was a Caterwauling Charm of sorts that she and her mother had modified into an alarm that announced approaching guests. She stood suddenly, knocking her head against the counter and cursing colorfully. Tiny, fiery tendrils of hair were poking out of her messy bun, and she was pretty sure this particular Gryffindor Quidditch shirt had belonged to at least two of her brothers and it probably had some holes to boot, so she hoped it wasn't anyone important. "Just a minute!" she called from her room, half-running across her living space and nearly tripping over an unassembled kitchen chair. She opened the door, but left the tiny lock chain in place as her father had taught her. "Hel—Oh! Oliver! Hold on!" Ginny shut the door, removed the chain, and opened the door again. "Sorry about that. What's up?" The day before she'd stopped by Quality Quidditch to let him know she'd moved and where to find her if he needed her, but she hadn't expected him to turn up the next day.

"Oh," he said, seemingly surprised that she'd asked for a reason for his visit. "I dunno, I just got off work and I was wondering how you'd settled," he explained casually, looking into and around the flat, "but you don't exactly seem to have settled yet. I guess I'll see you—"

Ginny cut him off by grabbing his wrist and dragging him inside. "Please stay!" she begged, dropping his warm, muscular forearm before a blush could rise to her freckled cheeks, "I've been sitting around avoiding unpacking all by myself since yesterday, and it's much more fun with company. If you unpack a box or two, I'll even buy you dinner!"

"Erm, I...Sure, I guess I was just headed home anyways," he accepted, recovering from a brief startled moment. "Don't you not have a job, though?" he asked, then bit his lip and kept speaking. "It sounds more fair for me to buy you dinner, maybe," he shrugged, looking around the mostly empty apartment.

Her left eyebrow raised for half a second as she met his eyes. "Sure," she agreed cautiously, trying and failing to ignore the stupidly childish feeling of half a thousand pixies going to war in her stomach, "but I do have a job, thank you very much. Apparently Florean Fortescue's niece decided that she'd rather model makeup and dress robes than sell ice cream, so I've taken her place. It feels kind of silly, but it'll pay the bills." She wanted to strangle the voice inside her that nearly mentioned that Fortescue's was only a gnome's throw from Quality Quidditch.

Oliver nodded, a smile twinkling in his dark eyes. "I wouldn't want to deny you the treat, after how hard you've clearly been working here," he teased.

"Oh, shove off!" she countered playfully, "you try your hand at a box or two and see if you don't give up, too."

He raised his hands above his head and walked slowly into the living room. "Don't shoot," he joked. "How about I put these tables and stuff together while you unpack the kitchen?"

"That'd be a big help, actually. I nearly killed myself trying to figure out my bed frame," Ginny admitted, opening the cabinets in kitchen and examining them with her hands on her hips. "I have some tools, unless you'd like to transfigure your own."

"Muggle tools have less of a habit of turning back into teacups and matchbooks when you press them too hard. Where would I find them?"

Instead of responding, she crouched and retrieved them from their storage under the sink and placed them by the counter. "Over here," she said, daring him to come close to her.

An emotion she couldn't identify flickered in his eyes before he confidently strode over. Her cheeks were red, so she busied herself in a cabinet to the left of where she'd set the tools.

"Nice shirt," he murmured, his voice close. He was standing right behind her, his fingers laid on her tiny toolbox, so close she could smell the soap and leather and grass of his skin. It was an _extremely_ nice smell, and it stirred a warm feeling into her lower stomach that she hadn't felt in many months.

She whipped her head around to answer him, wishing her hair was down to tickle his strong jaw as she turned...and bumped her forehead very forcefully into the cabinet door._ "Shit!"_ she groaned, stumbling back into a warm, chiseled chest.

His arms went further up her sides than was probably necessary when he turned her around. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

"All good," she winced, sounding weaker than she'd like. "You just startled me, is all. Am I bleeding?"

Oliver's calloused fingertips brushed the loose hair from around her rapidly forming bruise. "A small scrape, it'll scab before the night is through." His tone was every bit the Quidditch captain, though he spoke softly.

With slight reluctance, she pulled away. "Thanks, captain," she said drily and a bit too loud, relying on sarcasm to diffuse the tension in the air. "If you think you can put that coffee table together in the next half hour, we can break it in. George says there's a great Thai place down the street that delivers. I even think I've got the phone figured out. Are you hungry?"

He offered an audible gulp and a small nod before grabbing the tools and leaving to busy himself with the table.

A few moments of awkward silence passed until Ginny asked Oliver what he wanted to eat. He'd never had Thai before, but he was open to whatever she chose for him. That at least seemed to clear the air between them, and they chatted idly about school and mutual friends while he constructed her table and she unpacked all of her dishes and cookwares. It felt so homey and _nice _that for a while the fear and ache and confusion of her lost time with Harry clawed up her throat and tried to choke the breath out of her. Oliver noticed, and she faked a coughing fit until she could regain control of her unfortunately sentimental feelings.

"You alright?" Oliver questioned, his voice muffled behind the mostly completed cheap table.

His calm concern twisted the already killer knife of her past regrets deeper into her heart. "Y-yeah," she answered meekly. "It's just dusty back here," she added, hoping to sound convincing.

There was no answer, so she must have succeeded. Either that, or he was too caught up in his project that he didn't notice. _Probably the latter, _she conceded to herself.

The bluebird whistled. "You done with that table yet, Wood? The food is here!" She went to the door with her Muggle wallet and paid the kindly old delivery man.

Half an hour later, there were take away containers spread all over the new table and Ginny was giggling harder than she had in a long time. Apparently Oliver didn't handle spicy foods very well, and that was most of what they'd gotten. His whole face was red, his almost-crooked nose was running fiercely, and tears were falling freely from his chocolate brown eyes. "What the fuck is _in _this?" he choked, drinking straight from the half gallon of milk she'd offered him to cool the burn in his throat.

"Not a fan of the pad kee mao, I take it?" she teased in-between giggles. "If you feel you've suffered enough, there's dessert. I promise this one's not spicy."

As she'd promised, the mango and sticky rice was not spicy in the least. It had been a little pricey (mangos weren't exactly common fare in London, especially not in October), but well worth it. Oliver didn't look like he was dying anymore. In fact, he was giving her a rather curious look…

"I like you," he said suddenly. Ginny froze, but tried to keep her face as calm as possible. It seemed the pixies in her stomach had exploded into battle all over again. "But obviously I know you've only just gotten out of a really long something. I'd never push you into anything, but like I said earlier, I'd like to properly buy you dinner, at least."

He was so refreshingly honest and straightforward, and not anything like–_Stop that. _She realized she should probably say something, lest he think she was going to shut him down. Which she wasn't. _Right?_

Her voice had left her momentarily, so she nodded slowly instead. "I–Well...I think…I'm not–"

"The one and only Ginny Weasley rendered speechless?" he said, an eyebrow raised. "I'm sorry to spring it on you. It doesn't have to be tomorrow or anything, I can wait, I just thought you should know."

At that, she truly smiled. "Thanks for keeping me in the loop, I guess. And for…for understanding. The seas could get rough, here."

"The seas are always rough, when you're on the crew of the We Thought We'd Have This Figured Out By Now," he countered, bringing up the cheesy extended metaphor from their night of drinking in the Leaky.

"Believe me, that's heaven compared to its dinghy, the 'Lifetime's Worth of Emotional Baggage.'"

"She's sailing with a strong enough captain, I think," he said quietly, daring to reach his hand across the table and place it on top of hers.

Her entire arm felt tingly. This was so much to process: What had started for her as innocent flirtation with the vague possibility of a rebound shag or two had actually turned into real tension and emotions, and tonight Oliver had taken those tensions and established them as something solid, something possible, and something decidedly more formal than she'd been expecting.


	5. Prepared

How did she ever think she was prepared for this?

Ginny groaned out loud as she looked at her clock and rolled over to face the ceiling. Then, she drew her quilt over her head and groaned again. She really, _really_ should be getting ready for her date, but something about laying about in bed and pretending she didn't have to be anywhere seemed much more appealing. Besides, it was only 18:00, and he wouldn't come round for her until 19:30...and that was _plenty_ of time!

It wasn't like she was dreading the date, in fact the opposite was true. She was rather attracted to Oliver—it was hard not to be, with that body and those eyes, not to mention how honest and straightforward he was, plus how passionate he was about brooms and flying—and she was sure the date itself would go well, but...but something. "I fancy him," she announced to the sheets, "and I'm ready to take things to the next level..." But what level came after good-friends-who-are-clearly-attracted-to-each-other-and-both-acknowledge-it-who-also-suffer-from-uncontrollable-sexual-tension? Was that even a step? She groaned yet again, trying to smother herself in a pillow.

_Tonks would know what to do,_ she told herself, _though she'd probably start with getting out of bed._

* * *

Twenty-two minutes later, Ginny was out of the shower and in her underwear, having reached an impasse with her wardrobe. She felt silly, fretting over what to wear, but she knew she shouldn't cut corners just because he had already admitted to finding her pretty.

Finally, Ginny decided on a soft, dark grey jumper and what she referred to as her "arse jeans," plus her favorite trainers. She picked a thick gold and turquoise bangle to slide over the overlong sleeve and felt a sudden pang of guilt. The funky bauble had been a gift from Hermione; a relic of a trip to the southwest United States two years prior. Hermione, probably her closest friend, who didn't know anything about her and Oliver. In fact, the older witch barely knew anything about Ginny's life at the moment: discussion of her private life had been steadily avoided at all Weasley family dinners since the breakup, and living with a very stubborn Ron had served to double that silence, since he still thought she had sabotaged and destroyed her relationship with Harry out of spite. _Ugh._ She could count on one hand the number of times she'd had an honest conversation with her best friend in the last three months. Hell, she'd spoken to George and Luna more often, and they'd only been back from their ridiculous safari for three weeks.

Ginny dug absentmindedly through her makeup bag, looking for nothing in particular and lost in thought. It didn't help that literally everyone in her family was paired up with someone: even Percy had found some boring and academic witch to shag, and to hear Fleur tell it, little Victoire had a whole host of three and four-year-old boyfriends.

Her fingers found her favorite neutral shadow, and before long she'd found everything she needed to complete her overall modest and understated look. The act of doing her makeup was never time consuming; she never went for the dramatic and colorful looks that some of her peers favored, and her skin was good enough on its own so as not to require hours of care.

She took a step back from the mirror, pleased with what she saw. It turned out that her whole pre-production process had only taken about 40 minutes, and she had a lot of time left. Too nervous to try and find something to watch on her new, tiny Muggle television set, she settled on baking a quick batch of cookies. _Who says you can't eat your feelings?_ she mused, pulling the tiny bucket of cookie dough (the wonders of a Muggle grocery!) out of the icebox and using her wand to help the oven heat up.

* * *

Oliver showed up as the cookies were coming out of the oven. "Trying to sabotage my plans, are you?" he teased through a mouthful of warm cookies.

"I'm a nervous baker," she admitted with a shrug. "And no one's forcing you to eat half the bloody pan, either," she added, swatting at his arm playfully.

"What are you nervous for, anyways? It's just me." Her heart dropped into her stomach and she was glad he didn't expect an answer. "So I was thinking some fish and chips by the river, then I've got a surprise for you. Sound good?"

It sounded _great. _No pomp or ceremony, just a simple and no-nonsense night out. "Y-yeah, that sounds great, actually." She leaned against the counter, pushing her back a little too hard into the Formica as a reminder to not compare anything about this situation to Harry. "I'll warn you that there's a small chance of paparazzi—gossip columnists and the like—but they've been leaving me alone lately, so possibly not. I've sort of lost my claim to fame," she explained, more bitterly than she'd intended to.

"Lucky me, though, 'cause if you hadn't..." he trailed off, not wanting any awkwardness, and cleared his throat. "What you're wearing is fine—you look really good, by the way—but you may like a coat for later," Oliver advised, subconsciously tugging at the bottom of his own extremely sexy leather jacket.

"Is this about my surprise?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No. Maybe. If it was I wouldn't tell you."

"And here I thought all Quidditch captains hated surprises."

"Says who?"

"The three I've known, not counting you and myself."

"Yourself?"

"Somebody had to be in charge of the trainwreck of a team that we were left with after the war."

"I'm impressed," he said genuinely, "I hadn't known. So the other three must have been what, Charlie, Angelina, and..." he stopped, clearly knowing who came next.

"...Yeah. Basically every Gryffindor captain since, like, 1987." Ginny sprung off the counter. "I'll go grab my jacket, then we can head out."

He nodded, suddenly transfixed by the cabinets near the icebox, and she retreated to her room. It was so _different. _Ginny wasn't at all used to going on dates with people she wasn't, well, dating. It'd been years since her last "first date," and even that had been an entirely different affair: she couldn't exactly compare a first date at 22 to a Hogsmeade outing at 14, could she? _Ugh. I wonder if there's any way to just skip the whole thing and jump straight to the shagging. At least then I'd know what I'm doing, _she considered half-seriously, picking a cropped brown leather jacket of her own from her cramped little closet. _If I'll be shagging at all tonight, that is. _The closest they'd gotten to anything physical was a tight hug at the door that evening and a couple of lingering shy touches and almost-kisses while working on her broom, so it was entirely possible that they wouldn't get there tonight, or any night in the immediate future.

She shrugged her jacket on as she left her room and picked her bag up on the sofa, then strode confidently out the front door. "Are you coming, then?" she called inside to an amused Oliver.

* * *

The fish and chips had been surprisingly good, and Ginny was relieved that Oliver hadn't insisted on paying for her share, even though the point of the evening had been to treat her. She'd simply told him to treat her with his surprise instead, and was pleased to see that he already knew not to question or doubt her. The sun was setting and lighting the Thames up a hundred different ways when he turned to her,

"Ready for your surprise?" He was biting his lip, looking slightly to the left of her–as if he was as nervous as she.

"Erm…Yeah! Absolutely. What…?"

The corner of his mouth twisted up into a grin. "Okay. Don't get freaked out, or anything, but the surprise is sort of at my place. Is that alright?" He pulled back a little, already half-wincing in anticipation of her reaction, but she only burst into a fit of giggles.

"What am I, 13? Would you like me to go ask my mum first? Of course it's alright!" Truthfully, she was nervous as well, but laughing at him was much easier than admitting to her own apprehension.

"Brilliant!" Over-excited, he rushed back towards her and took her by the arm. She was swallowed by the ever-familiar twisting sensation, which was always worse with side-along. There was a loud _Crack! _and she found herself falling arse-first into ankle-high grass in front of a pretty, small cottage. "Shit, are you alright?" he helped her up, brows creased with worry.

"I've had worse, you just surprised me was all. Is this your house?"

"Oh. Sorry. Yeah." Oliver had a way of being inarticulate when flustered, apparently.

"No worries! So how about that surprise?" Ginny raised an eyebrow in his direction, then looked at the house, shaking a hand through her hair to make sure it wasn't full of grass.

"Oh! Well, d'you remember the last time we were tinkering with your broom, and I told you we'd have to spend a few more hours on it to finish it up and all?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but how does that–"

"I lied. It's totally done, I tested it myself this morning. If you'd like to try it yourself, I happen to have a Quaffle or two and a tree that bears a striking resemblance to a goal hoop…I think I'd like to see what the Gryffindor Captaincy let itself become after its heyday," he smiled, leaning against the sand-colored stone of the house.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You'll see, alright. Where's my broom?"

"Inside," he stated, unlocking the door and letting her in. "There're a few more Muggle conveniences than you'd probably expect, but it comes with being a half-blood, I think. You can put your stuff down, if you'd like."

She'd never heard him speak so fast. _Could he possibly be this anxious? _The house was small, as she'd noticed before, but clean and tidy. The Muggle conveniences, it seemed, included a television, a refrigerator, and a microwave, but everything else seemed pretty standard wizarding house fare, from the moving pictures of an older couple on the table by the door to the professional Quidditch robes hanging in a case behind the television and the various odds and ends littered around the surprisingly large and well-populated bookshelves. She set her bag down on the table to her right and pulled her hair bad and out of her eyes. "Ready to get smoked, Wood?"

He answered her by handing her her broom and motioning for her to lead the way out, and she accepted.

* * *

The rain had started about half an hour in, but they'd both been too absorbed in their game to notice until it was coming down _hard. _

"You have enough yet, Keeper?" she called out, her voice high and clear above the rumble of thunder.

"Unless you're keen on getting struck by lightning, I reckon we both have."

"You're just upset that I beat you, is all."

"It wasn't as if I had any opportunity to score, Weasley. Plus, I saved nearly everything…" he was floating down towards the ground, as was she.

"I refuse to let you count the time you accidentally kicked the Quaffle away when you were slipping off your broom, sorry," she announced, her trainers reaching down to touch the damp earth.

"Slipping off? Are you mental, woman? That's a legitimate move! Krunev used it in the 1982 World Cup!"

"Yeah, and so did I, when I was too stupid to fly properly!" She dropped her broom in order to put her hands on her hips, relishing in the mock argument.

"Will you pick that up? Unless you'd like to spend another three months forcing me to fix it for free–"

"I _forced _you, did I?" Ginny couldn't help but giggle a little. "I suppose I did that right after I demanded that you check me out and insisted that you stare at my arse on my way out?"

He was speechless and probably blushing, but it was too dark to tell.

"That's what I thought," she said confidently. But her confidence falters when he took a step closer to her. It was her turn to blush, now.

"It's raining pretty hard."

"I'd noticed. Or is a certain Captain afraid of a bit of rain?"

"Are you? I'm sorry, Ginny, I hadn't heard."

He was _extremely _close to her now, and now she was the one rendered speechless. _No, please, wit, don't abandon me now…_

"Is _the _Ginny Weasley possibly silent right now?"

"No," she said defiantly, tilting her head up towards him, "not quite."

"Good, I'm glad." Oliver was inching closer to her, and she could smell his leather jacket and the grass and soap scent that clung to his skin, even in the heavy rain. "Can I kiss you?"

"No," Ginny repeated, leaning up to kiss him herself.


	6. Knowledge

**A/N: **_The morning after. Things take a turn for the angsty, starting here._

* * *

"So what happened?" Hermione asked tentatively. "I feel awful–it's been weeks and I've not even gotten the whole story from you,"

Ginny shrugged, a bit too focused on her toast. "How do these things ever happen?" Her friend shot her a pointed look and she explained, though reluctantly. "Well…things had been rough for a while, poor sex and not communicating well and what have you, and then things sort of...came to a head one morning."

Hermione nodded, encouraging her to go on.

"I'd found out that he was using Auror contacts to track my goings about, without my permission and for no reason, while he was on assignment, and that led to an argument of sorts. We both said…some things, and then just like that it was over."

"Right. Would I be pressing to hard if I asked what was said?"

She shrugged again. "He said I was being secretive and he was worried about our safety. I told him the war was over, and that I wasn't being secretive, I was trying to find a bloody job so I wouldn't just sit at home all day. He didn't want me to have a job, because he said things were still unsafe. I argued that I should be able to have a job if he could, and that you all couldn't keep treating me like a useless kid sister. He said he was only worried for me. Then I…that's when things got sort of nasty," she frowned, suddenly enthralled by the formica of her kitchen counter. Hermione was silent, so she took that as a sign to continue. "I said…I said 'Well excuse me for thinking you wanted someone more like your mum than your aunt,' and then he shouted a bit and I told him the wedding was off and I was leaving. So he went to work and I banged around the house a bit and left, then lived with my parents until I got some work and found this place."

Her friend took a deep breath. "That was…You really shouldn't have–"

"Well no shit, but it's over now and there's nothing I can do. Nothing I want to do. It wasn't working and I'm glad it's over, and if you're only here so you can scold me over what I said months ago you can go home so I can do my wash, because I get it enough from Mum and Ron and I don't want to hear it," she finished hotly, cheeks lightly flushed under her freckles.

"Your mum's been on about it, too?" Hermione winced sympathetically, herself familiar with the woman's formidable wrath.

"Harry's still coming to family dinners, isn't he? My greatest life achievement was landing him, in her eyes, and I'm worth nothing now that I've lost him," she spat.

"That's not true, Ginny–"

"It's not? Why does my mum send me boxes of Harry's favorite treacles when she knows I can't stand them? Ron spent all last Sunday talking to Percy of all people, even though I was sitting right next to him all dinner!" Tears were welling up in her eyes, but she was too angry to care. "I mean, shit, this is the first conversation you and I have had about things in three months, and you're supposed to be my best friend!" It took every ounce of Ginny's inner strength to not attack Hermione over constantly placing Harry and Ron above her. "I just want my family to treat me like I was there before Harry. Which I was, by about ten years," she added petulantly.

"What would you have me do?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet. "We're not children anymore, Ginny. Ron and I are getting married, I can't just send him off to Harry's when we have a row–not that that would help your situation–and especially now with the wed-"

"The _what_?"

Hermione's hands flew to her temples. "Damn! I wasn't supposed to-"

"You're getting _married? _How long were you going to wait to tell me?"

"Only a few days; we were planning to announce it on Sunday, but that's not the point, is it?"

"Is there another bloody point? You didn't even so much as _mention-" _

"Don't say it so childishly! Honestly, you're as bad as Ron-"

"Oi! Watch your accusations, Miss Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"

"Ginny! Would you _please_ act like a rational adult for three seconds at a time?" Hermione pleaded, her voice thick with exasperation. "There's something I need to ask you, about the wedding."

Confusion flickered across Ginny's face for a moment, replaced outwardly by calm and inwardly by icy dread. "Yes?"

"Ron...Ron and I want you and Harry to be the best man and maid of honor," Hermione said quietly, her eyes more trained on the furniture than her friend.

"Me and Harry aren't anything, especially as a unit," she responded reflexively.

"I know! But you two are my closest friends, and it would mean so much to us—"

"Does Harry know?" Ginny interrupted suddenly, eyes narrowing in suspicion towards her friend.

"He—Ron told him at work, against my wishes," she explained carefully. "He already accepted...and Ron's still set on getting you two back together, but I promise you I'm not. I genuinely want you to be my maid of honor, regardless of who you're dating."

She stared into her coffee, unsure of how to answer.

"I don't need an answer right away–The wedding is still months away–but I do want to know. I can't even imagine who it would be, if not you,"

Thinking about it made Ginny's stomach hurt. "I'll let you know."

"Thank you, Ginny. How's work?" Hermione asked lightly, clearly looking to relieve some of the tension in the room.

"Dunno, I sell ice cream, I guess. Lots of sticky toddlers and frazzled mothers, mostly, now that the older kids are in school."

"That's lovely!"

It wasn't, but she couldn't fault Hermione for being cheerful. "It pays the rent and groceries." _And dates._ She hadn't mentioned Oliver yet, and for whatever reason was anxious about the idea. What if, despite her insistence to the contrary, Hermione was in Ron and Molly's camp of forcing her and Harry back together? If she told her, would she have to tell the rest of her family?

"Ginny?"

"Hmm?" She responded quickly, looking up and blinking too fast.

"Nothing, you just looked a bit…lost. Something on your mind?"

"N…no, 'course not," Ginny answered quickly, meeting Hermione's eyes again.

"Right. I think I'll just use your loo, then, and then I should get going. I have wash to do, myself."

Ginny nodded listlessly and took another sip of her coffee, glancing at the weather report on the television. A moment later, Hermione went into the living room to get her pocketbook, then walked back into the kitchen with her arms crossed and an eyebrow arched, very much still a Hogwarts prefect.

"Going to take a quick five points from Gryffindor before you go?" Ginny asked sarcastically, setting her mug and plate in the sink.

Hermione ignored her comment. "There are a pair of size ten men's trainers next to your sofa. I know that you wear a size five. Harry's a nine and Ron's an eleven and a half, as are most of your brothers. Would you mind telling me who exactly those shoes belong to and why you haven't mentioned their owner to me?"

_Shit._ Ginny's mind raced, wondering how those bloody shoes had gotten left out in plain sight. Oliver had Apparated her home after their lovely date and impromptu Quidditch match…_We were soaked, so we took off our wet things and had some tea, and then he kissed me goodnight and went home. Without shoes. Merlin's pants, he left his shoes._

"Ginny!" Hermione called her back to the moment, "Who do they belong to?"

She was saved from answering by the sound of a beak pecking on the kitchen window. Hurriedly, she hopped up and let the familiar owl in, taking his letter and giving it a small treat before it landed in her sink, apparently waiting for a response. The short note read:

_Ginny,_

_This is really embarrassing, but I think I left my trainers in your flat. Sorry._

_-Oliver_

Forever impressed by how ridiculous her life could be, Ginny could do nothing but run a hand through her hair and let loose a laugh tinged heavily with exasperation.

Hermione impatiently snatched the note from her and pursed her lips as she read it. "Oliver? How long have you been seeing him? Does anyone know?"

Ginny took the note back. "Yes, last night was our first real date, and you're the only one. If you're quite through with the Inquisition, you'll remember that I have wash–"

"Absolutely not! When were you planning on telling me?"

"I dunno, but judging on your reaction I was right to wait," she retorted, a bit angry at her friend's hypocrisy. "I've been broken up with Harry since July, and it's late October. Was there some statute of relationship limitations that I've overlooked, or were you lot just expecting me to wither away and be a lonely old spinster my whole life? I'm twenty fucking two, I barely have a job, despite being a war veteran and a pretty fucking good Quidditch player, and everyone I know likes my ex better than me, apparently including my family and my best friend. Excuse me for wanting to date someone who actually likes me!" She exploded, hands firmly on her hips and cheeks heated. Hermione was silent, so she continued. "Heaven forbid my family finds out that after 17 years I've finally decided to define myself by something _other_ than fancying Harry Potter! It'll be the end of the world, won't it! I didn't get to be the war hero, I'm not on a Chocolate Frog card, and now I'm not even going to be a footnote in Wizarding history next to The Great Harry Potter. But I _finally_ feel like I'm living my own life and making my own choices and yes, dating Oliver Wood happens to be one of those choices, and if you can't get over it than I feel sorry for deluding myself into thinking that I would ever mean as much to you as Harry and my brother do! Now if you don't mind, please get _out_ of my flat, and tell my mum not to expect me at dinner tonight."

"Ginny, I–" Hermione's eyes were welling up with tears.

"Not now. Out." _She has no right to be upset. No bloody right, after all I've been through. _

Hermione nodded and grabbed her coat, turning quickly and Disapparating from right there in the kitchen. Ginny let out a ragged breath, tears falling from her own eyes, and leaned her head against the kitchen cabinet. Oliver's owl squawked from the sink, reminding her that he was still there.

"Oh, you," she said quietly, digging through a drawer for a pen and scrawling a reply on the back of Oliver's note.

_Put on your drinking pants and come get them. Things happened with Hermione today._

_-g_

She sloppily folded the note and tucked it into the owl's leg pouch, then sank down onto the linoleum floor as he hopped out of the window and into the air. The clock on the stove read 10 AM. _I don't want to feel my face by lunch,_ she decided, pulling a bottle of cider from the fridge and hoping Oliver was willing to keep up with her desperation.


End file.
